by Mj Fields
“Just a little tired.” What an understatement.
“You’re welcome to stay at my place and sleep. But I have to tell you, Stella …” He pauses when the car stops and hops out. Then he reaches his hand in to take mine and continues talking. “… I’m getting tired of having to bring assistants with me to these events when I have a girlfriend. And now that you’re finally back in New York, I want you to go with me.” He steps back, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
When I step out with my Bottega Venta Alligator duffel, I attempt to drop his hand as I turn to ask Roger to get my suitcase from the trunk. Elijah huffs out in annoyance.
I turn back to Elijah, finding him looking at me with narrowed eyes.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“I didn’t say no, Elijah.” I nod back to Roger, who is taking my suitcase from the trunk. “I need my suitcase. Please, Ro—”
“I have a dress for you, Stella.”
“I’d like my suitcase.”
The firmness in my voice stops him. He cocks his head to the side, looking at me curiously.
“Your bag, Miss,” Roger addresses me, holding out my bag but looking at Elijah.
It takes him a second to catch on that Roger is trying to get …
Oh my God, I think when it hits me. Roger knows damn well my boyfriend just got a blow job and is trying to help Elijah be … a gentleman by handing him my bag to carry.
I feel my face burning as I reach for the handle of one of my most treasured hand-me-downs—the matching medium Bottega Veneta suitcase.
Elijah takes it, and then my other hand. “So, that’s a yes?”
I stop as I watch him carelessly swing my bag around. “It’s a yes if you’re more careful with the Bottega Veneta bag you’re carrying. That set is a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
He stops dead in his tracks. “How the hell did you get—”
“Angela saved it for me. It was one of Jean’s. They had almost donated it to charity when he passed.”
Angela is my best friend, Natasha’s mother. Natasha, my best friend since high school, is the head designer for de la Porte fashion, a company her stepfather, Bastian, and mother, Angela, own. They knew I loved bags. They also knew that I had pawned my most prized possession—the season’s “it bag” that Jean had gifted me while visiting de la Porte during high school—when I needed extra money for the very last trip on my father’s bucket list. A trip for my father, my brother, and me before he died. We had that one last trip … One we never made.
Natasha and Angela had been shocked and upset when they found out that I hadn’t asked for help when my family needed it the most. Dropping out of school my senior year to take care of my dad was hard enough. However, they had made me promise never to let pride stop me from talking to them if I ever needed anything.
“Stella,” Elijah’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “We’re going to be late.”
Stepping off the elevator and into his place, he sets down my bag and looks at me.
I force a smile through my exhaustion.
“So? What do you think?”
“Think?”
His brows furrow. “You’re joking, right?”
“Elijah, I said I’d go.” I take his hand and try to force out some sort of excitement for him.
“You’re being serious?”
I have no idea why he’s so annoyed.
He lets out an exasperated breath. “Stella, the penthouse.”
I look around and notice the black leather furniture. “You have new furniture. It’s lovely.”
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs out. “It’s a new place, Stella.”
“I don’t know how I missed this.” I look up at him. “I’m sorry.”
“Forgiven.” He gives me a quick smile and spreads his arms out wide to his sides. “I worked my ass off for this.” His eyes stop on something, and just as quickly as his smile came, it’s replaced with a frown.
I follow his line of vision. He’s looking at the large mahogany clock on the otherwise bare wall.
When I look back at him, his brows are furrowed.
“We have less than an hour to get ready.”
With his hand on my lower back, Elijah hurries me through the expansive kitchen, whisks me through the stark white living and dining area, down the hall with four doors, and to the end. He opens the door and ushers me into an elegant master suite. On the white walls hangs a black and white picture on canvas. It’s a picture of his family from a better time, many years ago—his deceased father, his mother who is always on holiday, his beautiful redheaded twin sisters, and a much more youthful and happier smiling Elijah.
“The master bath is there.” He points to the French doors on the opposite side of the room. “Do whatever you need to do to make yourself even more beautiful in less than thirty minutes.”
Looking up at him, I nod. “I can do that.”
He visibly relaxes and sighs. “Thank you. It was a hell of a day. I’m sorry if I seem off.”
“Off?” I force myself to make light of what has transpired in less than twelve hours. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
“Shit.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I came in your mouth, Stella.” His green eyes dance in amusement. “I know you love the taste of my cum, but I have no desire to taste it. Brush your teeth, and I will kiss the hell out of you.”
I can’t be upset by this, even if I want to be. Not when his normally guarded, beautiful green eyes sparkle. Never when they sparkle.
“Give me two minutes.” I grin at him before turning to hurry back toward the door we entered, en route to grab my Bottega Veneta from the entry so I can retrieve my toiletries.
He splays his hand across my belly, stopping me. “Top drawer, there’s a new toothbrush and toothpaste for you.”
“For me?”
“I think about you all the time, Stella. Of course for you.”
All the annoyance, the hurt, the pissed off feelings that I have been feeling all day lift up and off my shoulders as I see him, the man I love, the man who loves me.
I hurry to the bathroom and open the drawer, smiling when I see it’s full of toothbrushes. Amongst his stark white ones are others in vibrant colors.
I smile as I brush my teeth so I can kiss my boyfriend for the first time since graduation weekend in London.
Chapter Two
The Past
My first memories of Stella McCarty were that she was a constant presence, a wholesome presence. Her pale, heart-shaped face was always lit up by the sparkle in her brown eyes and the plump, pink, bow-shaped lips that were almost always chapped but permanently curved in a dazzling smile.
The cause of the chapped lips was her constant coloring. Her little tongue would mimic the back and forth movement of the crayon she held to paper … or the walls, or my arm.
When it was the wall or me, she would get scolded by her mother, Miss Ginny, who was one of the preschool teachers at the childcare center I was enrolled at in 5 World Trade Center. Unlike everyone else who was sent to the thinking chair when they misbehaved—some dragging their feet, some having to be carried, others stomping and angry—Stella would shrug then smirk, jumping up and skipping to it. There she would sit, putting her feet up on the back of the big, plush, sky-blue chair, her head hanging down, jet black unruly curls spilling over the seat and onto the soft, multicolored tiles on the floor. She would close her eyes and tap against her teeth with her little tongue as she sang lalalalalalala repeatedly until the timer went off. Then her smile would spread across her face, her big, brown eyes popping open, searching for her mother, who would hide her amusement. But her eyes gave her away, the sparkle mirroring Stella’s, and she would simply nod. Then Stella would pop up, pushing her little body off the chair, and she would run back to the place she had left her crayons.
Her hair was always a mess, and it always had a big bow atop the chaos. I assume that was her mother’s attempt to make some sense of it:
a great plan, but one with failed execution, every single time.
When new kids came to the center, they always cried when their parents left because of separation anxiety. But as soon as Stella—or Lala as I dubbed her way back then—would approach them and take their hand, they seemed to no longer be affected by that separation and would follow her wherever she went.
I knew why. I’d done the same damn thing because she was like a beacon to all the sad and sorrowful souls who encountered her.
We were all drawn to her. But unlike a moth to a flame, there was no way any one of us could possibly get close to her and feel a burn. No, it wasn’t a flame we were drawn to; it was her heart. A heart so big that no one could feel anything but love and acceptance from her.
Even those who were sometimes … unworthy.
It’s odd that I would remember events that happened in my life at two, almost three years old. But every year since I could remember, Miss Ginny had given us a small photo album at the end of each year. Pictures, items, preserved memories of the year. I kept them all.
That’s not the only reason I remember my preschool years.
Not all memories of that time were happy, but through the worst of the worst, Stella’s eyes still shined and still brought comfort to all around her.
The day that our place of color, music, friendship, learning, and laughter shook, the world around us trembling, the lights going out, firing lighting up the sky, sirens and cries surrounding us, while ash rained down upon us, the day the world stopped, it was her who had enveloped us in comfort.
Lalalalalalala.
Chapter Three
Stella
Present Day
I was glad that I had washed my hair this morning, so a quick shower and some dry shampoo would make everything feel and smell fresh.
Since I’m the queen of snooze, I know I can be event-ready in thirty minutes without an issue.
After I brush my teeth and shower quickly, I muster up all the courage I have and walk out of the bathroom, completely and totally naked.
When Elijah looks up, I smile. “I brushed my teeth. Now, come kiss me.”
“Stella.” The low rumble in his voice a warning wrapped in want. “We don’t have time.”
“I swear if you don’t come over here so I can feel you, I’m going to die.”
“Stella,” he sighs out.
I walk toward the bed, turn around, and look back at him while bending over the high king-sized bed and spread my legs wide, knowing he won’t be able to resist me.
“Christ, Stella,” he groans as he walks quickly toward his nightstand, laying the deep red gown he had draped over his arm on the bed before pulling the drawer open, yanking out a condom. He rips it open and looks at me, his eyes heavy and hooded as he takes himself in his hand. “You need me that bad?”
Swallowing down the desire I feel by seeing him handle himself, something I never thought would turn me on, I nod, hungry eyes still glued to his hand as he sheaths himself.
He moves swiftly to stand behind me, looking down at me, rubbing his hand down my back.
God, that’s sexy.
He rubs himself against me, closing his eyes and murmuring, “You are so wet for me, Stella.”
“Kiss me, Elijah.”
With his eyes still closed, he leans forward and pushes himself inside me. Once fully seated, he stills and kisses my shoulder. I lean back, turning my head until his lips finally touch mine.
I open my mouth as he pushes his tongue into it. Then he fucks my mouth at the same pace that he fucks me.
When he pulls back, he holds me still, and I circle my hips.
“Don’t,” he demands.
“I was there, Elijah. Just keep fucking me. I’ll get there with you,” I beg. “Please,” I whimper.
“You want me to make you come?”
I nod.
“I’m the only man who’s ever made you come?”
I nod again, clenching my insides.
“The only dick that’s ever been inside you?”
“Elijah,” I whimper then beg, “Please.”
“The. Only. Dick. That. Has. Ever—”
“Yes, dammit.” I push back against him.
“Ever?” he hisses, fingers gripping me tighter, almost painfully so.
“Yes,” I whimper as I reach between my legs and toy with my clit to push me closer to the edge. “Elijah—Oh, yes,” I cry out when he pushes inside me fully.
“Fuck. My dick feels so good inside”—he moans, rocking back and forth inside me—“of pussy.”
He begins to move faster with swift, shallow thrusts, stretching me, bringing me closer to orgasm. And when I feel him tense, I pinch my clit and come at the same time he does.
“Fuck yes,” he hisses. “Fuck.”
Moments later, I feel him pull out of me. Then he steps to my side, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “We have to go, Stella.”
“Hmm,” I sigh contently.
I hear him chuckle as he walks away.
Knowing that he’s always less tense after we make love, I consider resting my eyes for a few more minutes but then decide against it. I may just fall asleep.
I push myself up off the white duvet that was so comfortable and walk to my suitcase to gather some of the new undergarments that I bought myself with my first paycheck from my de la Porte internship. The undergarments that my best friend Natasha helped me pick out especially for Elijah.
Now that Natasha is blissfully happy and her virginity is long gone, our girl time chats have become X-rated. Her description of her sex life with Oliver is off the charts. When I asked a few too many questions, though, she seemed to catch on that I wasn’t as confident in my ability as she was. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I have been giving blow jobs correctly.
She told me that, with all the pressures of school, my internship, along with the fact that Elijah and I were on different continents, it was probably normal that there is a slight disconnect. She said that the more time we spend together, the more we will get our needs, wants, and desires in sync. Then she told me she had the same concern, to which Oliver had told her, “you can’t fuck up a blow job.” She told me that it was also important that I feel sexy and confident.
Having been raised by a single father in my formative years, there wasn’t a lot of underwear talk, so she and her mother’s best friend, Autumn, who was also my boss, taught me everything I needed to know.
From behind me, I hear Elijah’s audible gasp. “What the hell is that?”
I look over my shoulder as I clasp the front of the black lace bra that matches the thong I’m wearing and see his green eyes are as big as saucers. “My undies.”
“Who the hell have you been wearing those for?”
I turn around and put my hands on my hips, giving him the same annoyed look he’s giving me, and answer his silly question. “Oh, I don’t know? Probably the man who just had his dick in my pussy.”
His eyes dart from my tits to my crotch and back again. “That’s unnecessary.”
“Well, then for me.”
“I was referring to the way you just spoke to me,” he says coolly as he walks toward a door and opens it.
“Would you prefer I say penis and vagina?” I ask as I walk over to the dress laying across the bed.
He doesn’t reply, so I don’t say any more.
I remove the dress from the hanger and read the label. Christian Siriano.
“Do you like the dress?” he asks as he ties his black bow tie.
“It’s beautiful, but I prefer the de la Porte line of evening gowns.”
He nods and smirks. “I assumed you had a closet full of those.”
Stepping into the dress, I pull it up then sweep my hair to the side. “Would you mind zipping me?”
As he zips me up, I suck my belly in. When he stalls, I ask, “Is it zipped?”
“No, not yet.”
I feel my face burn with embarrassment.
“Maybe if you we
re wearing a different bra, this wouldn’t be so difficult.”
I place both hands over the satin material and attempt to flatten my boobs. “It’s not the bra.”
“Well, have you gained weight?” He stops when I look back at him and scowl. “What?”
“No, I have not gained weight,” I snap.
“Well, then we’ll go with the bra.”
I squish them farther against my body. “Try again.”
It takes him a few seconds, but he finally gets it zipped.
I step away toward the bathroom, having to pull the dress up so that the three inches of extra material doesn’t drag on the floor. “Can you check my bag and see if my black heels are inside, please?”
I don’t bother looking in the full-length mirror as I grab my small bag full of hair accessories before sweeping my hair up and pinning it into a French twist.
When I’ve finished, I open my makeup case and see Elijah walking in with a pair of heels that match the dress exactly. “These work?”
I smile. “They work perfectly. Let me do my makeup, and then we’ll be out the door in no time.”
“Could you go light on the makeup?”
I look up as I blot foundation on my face with a beauty blender and laugh. “What?”
“Less is more, Stella. This is a fundraiser, not a club or a drag show.”
Shocked, I gasp. “Did you just call me—”
“Of course not. Just go easy. This dress doesn’t require all the makeup.”
I can’t believe the way he’s acting, so I pause and stare at him. When he doesn’t look away, I do.
“I’m not being rude, Stella.”
I don’t reply.
“What I’m saying is you’re beautiful and don’t need it. Just like you don’t need sexy lingerie to entice me to want you. My dick was hard the minute I saw you.”
After a swipe of mascara, I turn and look at him. “How do I look?”
“You’re staying here.”
“What?”
“Your tits are staying …” He pauses, shakes his head, and looks from my boobs to my eyes. “You should just stay here. I won’t be gone—”
